GIVING UP THE GAME.

Sun (Christchurch), Volume I, Issue 31, 13 March 1914, Page 2

GIVING UP THE GAME.

PAINS AND CONSOLATIONS. '' Giving up the game —the pains and consolations Of retirement," an article appearing in a recently-arrived issue of '' The Times'' (London) inspired by the reappearance in the ring a few days since--of three champions of the past, Jack M'Aukffe, Jem Carney, and Dick: Burge, has a poignancy and a consolation all its own. What are the feelings of the man who realises that he must give up his cherished game, be it cricket, football, golf, or even bowls, though this last-men-tioned for palpable reasons holds its devotees longest? And how hard it is to give up. You know it. Think for a moment, and the names of, scores of men whp cannot pulj themselves away from the cricket field, the football field, the running track, the boxing ring, from any form of sport, even when they know their powers are waning, will come into your mind. Great players of the past are still to be found playing in junior grades of sport—they, cannot tear themselves away. "The Times' " article will bear quoting. The reappearance of these mighty champions of the past, the writer "has a certain tragic significance. It is a kind of memento mori for those who are now in the heyday of their fame at some athletic pursuit, familiarly alluded to by their nicknames by admirers who have never spoken to them, and pestered for autographs by worshipping little- boys." It may, too, in a less. poignant degree, bring home the fact of their vanishing youth to many others —those who, having pursued some speeies of ball along the cooler and more sequestered vales of life, without fame, but with heartfelt enjoyment, find themselves growing stiffer, fatter, and busier.

"Even in these times of decaying classics the name of Pindar doubtless conveys more to the modern schoolboy a poet rather than a wicket-keeper. . . . And the time may come, though it will not bear thinking of, when that schoolboy's remote successor shall connect with nothing more thrilling than a taxicab the two imperishable letters W.G. "Football is, in the course of Nature, generally the first to go, and the "heartbreak of retirement is rendered the less severe by contemplating the painful consequences of a return to the arena after a long abstinence. At the opposite pole to football iB golf, of which it is the proverbial reproach, but the actual fglory, that it is 'an old man's game.' .... The golfer whose gaine is growing slowly worse can always find playmates-who are in the same ease, 'oldsters who spoon the ball gently . . ~ the quotidian round enlivened with varied conversation.' "In this last matter cricket is a more tragic game than golf. ..■'. .The runs that get fewer, the arm that gets lower; the inability to stoop qwl:?y enough even at suspiciously deep point—these things have to be endured with philosophy—or else the ultimately inevitable step must be When once the sentence has been indisputably pronounced, some fling themselves suddenly upon the block, others, clinging desperately to life, come to it gradually through village matches. All meet again at last in the heaven of the pavilion to swell the sweet and eternal music of the critical choir. Herein they are at a disadvantage as compared with their rowing brethren, for their criticisms have no effect upon anyone. The ancient oarsman bumping along the tow-path on an ancient steed can at least, by his candidly proclaimed opinion of them, make miserable the lives of his successors." "Whether it is better for the player to give up the game when 'a-tiptoe on the highest point of being,' or to wait until the game has given him up, is the question that depends on individual temperament. There are some who cannot quite drive the thought of reputation out of their heads, and so are unhappy if they linger; others have either had no reputation to trouble about or have cared nothing for it when they had it. It is not worth while to argue about a man's whole attiiadie olf mind, but there is not much doubt which of the two classes iB the happier. To a great player who possesses an ideally sane outlook on his game, even a nought, a missed catch, and no wickets might constitute a 'sundown splendid and serene,' "